“I’ve been getting about four letters a week, but guess I’ll have to wait until it gets forwarded to me now,” acknowledged O. D.
“Mon Du!” was the ejaculation, “four a week. Gosh, you’re lucky. Why, I’ve only got seventeen since I hit this country. Course there’s nobody to write me but a few of the boys down at the newspaper office who couldn’t pass the physicals——”
“Is that a fact, Jimmy?”
“Oui. Bet your tin hat.”
“Don’t see how you stand this life without letters.”
“Comes tough at times, ’specially when the other guys gets beaucoup letters. Kinda feel like a nobody. But generally somethin’ turns up—we start drivin’—or the Boches get some guts and throw a few over. Then there ain’t much chance to think about such things.” Jimmy spoke as if a few letters could do a great deal toward winning wars.
“By George, I’m goin’ to get Mary to write to you right—— How do you say it in French, Jimmy?”
“Toot sweet,” prompted the Yank, with new hope in his tones.
“Well, I’ll have Mary write you toot sweet, then—that is, if you want me to.”
“Want you to—— Whew, boy, that’ll save my life. Will you?” he asked, eagerly.